Of Oracles and Stranger Things
by Mx4
Summary: If you knew you were to die protecting another, could you sacrifice your life for that person? In this brief glimpse, one fanfic writer attempts to answer that question for one of his favorite characters on one of his favorite shows. Reviews regarding quality and accuracy of answer are very much appreciated.


A/N: Just a story idea I wanted to get out there. I don't own any characters, settings or any of that other good junk.

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An inevitable fact of life is that it ends. Always. No ifs, ands or buts about it. One of the only ways anything aware of that fact continues to function however is because it does not know how, why or when precisely it will be gone. Such a fact does not hold true for some however. For example, ever since he was thirteen years old, Timothy McGee knew he was living on borrowed time. That one day there would be two portents that sealed his doom. He would see a young woman's brown eyes and he would feel a sharp, piercing pain deep in his left side, just below the ribcage. Oh, how many times had he awoken in the night, or during the day when his wandering mind would take him back to that pivotal point, the choice that would define his memories for now and for the rest of his life! For that was the true curse of his mother's family, the Delikios. His uncle, like his father before him, and his father before him, just like all the first-born sons of the Delikios had a curse laid upon them. A curse they could guess but did not know the origin of, but a curse it was none the less. One that would seem a blessing to those ignorant as to its machinations.

Their Patron who had granted them with the gift of foresight would present them with a vision. The vision would inform them of when they were going to die and how. Those who do not know better may ask; but why is that so terrible? If you knew when you and how you were going to die couldn't you simply change your life in order to prevent it from happening? Change what you were going to do at the time that it was meant to happen? The answer, like the curse itself is more complicated than that. The time between the vision and when the curse calls the vision to be fulfilled are never exactly the same. The time between the two events has been everything from a single week to over fifty years. The second part of that answer is that when the first born male Delikios foresees his death, it has proven without fail to be a death born of sacrifice and protection.

A choice forced upon them by the Patron between their death for the life of another or the death of that same proverbial other in exchange for their own continued existence. Whether their act saved one life or many and whether they saved family, friend, enemy or complete stranger depended upon the Delikios you spoke of and what random chance dictated when it came for the curse to be fulfilled. Furthermore, the vision the Patron gives them telling them when they will die is not so simple as a precise date and hour. Often, all they have is a fleeting glimpse of the single moment in time, of that one instant in all the universe when they will have to make their choice between life or death. Sacrifice of self or sacrifice of others. The scene is vivid, but only small bits of it leak through to the conscious mind even if they receive the same vision multiple times over the course of their lifespan.

What they remember most distinctly when they try to recall cues from their vision could be just about anything. It could be a distinct smell, it could be a specific action, it could be a unfamiliar noise or it could even be a phantom sensation. Or, as is the case with Tim, they remember an almost unnervingly detailed but ultimately minor piece of what they see. Specifically, Tim remembers the eyes of the one his knows instinctively will have their life or death in his weak, frightened, all too human hands. He remembers them with such clarity that he can draw them with any piece of paper and his own eyes closed. He never believes his drawings can compare to the genuine articles, but he does what he can. Especially since he knows that where once there were two sets of them, now there is only one. Though he isn't entirely sure, Tim suspects that he is one of the only men in his mother's family to be given a chance to repent and make up for his greatest and most private shame.

For you see, the vision he has experienced since he was thirteen isn't the first time he's had such a vivid connection with his impending doom. It is in fact the second. The eyes remained the same in the second vision, but it is the sensation that is changed. The first time he dreamed of his own death, through he could never recall it when awake, he always believed it was some kind of fire that he was trapped in. He awoke in his bed the first night of experiencing his damnable birthright: all of ten years, four months and eight days old. And terrified into hysterics. His skin, his eyes, his mouth, his lungs, his blood, his very bones were all aflame and burning him from the inside out. In the dream it lasted less than five seconds. But that all consuming fire is what he feels when he wakes up in his soft bed, screaming and sobbing at the top of his lungs because like every other rational human being he instinctively fears pain and death. No matter how his parents (mostly his mother) try to calm him down, he practically refuses to sleep again, refuses to leave his room. On the rare occasions sleep comes back to him, so too does the vision, driving him back to square one even when he tries to make progress in dismissing them as hallucinations or particularly vivid imaginings. They have doctors come to look at him, they bring in shrinks and finally they bring in his uncle.

His beloved uncle Tyson, who explained to him the history of their bloodline. His compassionate uncle Tyson, who planted deep in his impressionable nephew's bright mind a sense of honor and fairness that would not be compromised. His selfless uncle Tyson, who would die in two more months by stepping into the crosswalk during the wrong signal. And who would somehow manage to do it ahead of the panicked, rushing medical student whose absent-minded hurry almost cost him his own life. As the young Bradley Pitt watched this complete stranger's life fade, he vowed that he would do whatever he could to ease the suffering and the pain that illness and frailty visited on others, no matter what the cost. As the years passed, the memory became hazier, murkier. The original vivid image of the man's body laid out in the road faded bit by bit. Until many years later, Dr. Pitt couldn't remember the physicality or even the face of his anonymous guardian angel.

The brass were forced to keep his father in the states during a time when they might've sent him abroad, to see what kind of impression he would make in the international field. It hampered his career and personal image in the Navel echelons to be forced to care for a son who clearly had more than a few nuts and bolts loose even after all these years. And Tim's father has never forgiven him for that. But Tim's vision ceased occurring to him soon after, so he thought perhaps it wouldn't happen anymore. He believed that maybe he had escaped without injury. And then the eyes came back.

It hadn't in fact gone away, merely changed the method of death. Instead of the all consuming inferno, it was a deep, piercing pain that would stay with him even when he was waking. He was all of thirteen years old now and so didn't understand what it meant. Did it mean that he hadn't changed anything? Did it mean the fates had taken pity on him by giving him a more merciful death? These answers simultaneously haunted and eluded him as he continued onward, trying to drown himself in his schoolwork to tune out that small persistent whisper in the back of his head that called him a coward and said that he was a dishonorable stain if he would be so craven and willing to let another die in his place.

Eventually, his conscience would let him rest no longer, forcing him to go into law enforcement. Whether it was chance or providence, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service was willing to take him onboard. His becoming a probationary agent was the last straw for Admiral James McGee, who viewed this as adding insult to injury after all that the boy had put himself and his mother through over the years. He'd ceased speaking to his son soon after, his wife reluctantly following his lead. And even though she didn't let on as much, Tim knew that their negative opinion of him had affected his once close relationship with his younger sister Sarah, who was now old enough to pick up on such nuances now that she was closer to an adult than a child in terms of age and maturity.

But that didn't matter to him. Not really. Because NCIS revealed to him the true extent of his mistake and showed him the one he would die to protect. He had seen her brother before she ever came. Had known the man to be responsible for the death of one of his teammates. But the first time he saw her and saw those eyes, he knew that one day he would be given a choice between saving the life of Mossad Agent Ziva David or allowing it to be ended. His mind raced a mile a minute, reeling even as he tried to understand. He spent over two weeks and part of a third puzzling over why he had the same vision involving her but with different outcomes when he was ten and thirteen years old respectively. And so he decided to use his prodigious technological savvy to search for answers.

What he found revealed to him the extent of his involvement in her life and the ultimate cost on her fate. He discovered through his painstaking research that Ziva did in fact have two siblings long ago. But unlike her brother Ari, her sister had not reached a more adult, mature age. Around the time his father probably would've been slated to have been overseas if Tim had not lost his mind to fear back when he was ten, there was a terrorist attack in the city of Tel Aviv. Her sister had been killed in a bomb blast along with several others. It was when he read this that a cold, dark shiver wormed its way down his spine as all the missing pieces fell into place. He had been meant to go with his family overseas. His father, no nonsense but practical military man that he was would've certainly impressed the brass and been sent to more and more dangerous locales. It was almost inevitable that they would've eventually gone to a base with their allies over in the holy land. He might've met Tali; he might've simply been a foreign boy who happened to be in the same area that day. But one way or another, he had been meant to save her life that sweltering day in the city of Tel Aviv. To shield her from the blast that ended up killing her. And now, as payment for his cowardice, for not following through when the patron had shown him, he would be presented the same choice again, but this time it would be in order to save her sister.

Tim cried for a long time when he discovered those particular truths of the world. The truth that someone had already died and more lives besides had been changed because of his inaction. The truth that the universe truly did not care whether or not it asked a child to kill themselves if it would save the life of another. The truth that it didn't really matter how much he cursed and damned the shifting heavens because in the end he still had to choose whether it was more important for him to live with guilt or die with honor. The truth for all that he had revered his uncle's words of justice and goodness and compassion he was still a very weak, frightened and fragile child at heart who so much wanted to live for as long as he could. These were all extremely tough ideas of reality to accept for the newer addition to Team Gibbs, especially when compounded by the questions of mortality and what one life's value meant in exchange for another that his teammate Kate's death had brought up. But, after over two months of private soul searching in between keeping busy with the team and the cases they were assigned, he came to the conclusion that he realized was inevitable from the beginning.

He would die for Ziva David. Part of the reason he knew he would was selfish reasoning, selfishly wanting to be forgiven and make up for his past inaction, not wanting to feel so unclean in his very soul. But the predominant part of him that agreed with this had a far simpler reason. He was no longer a child. He was a fully grown, fully aware adult with no excuse not to take responsibility for something that was expected of him. This is why he so much appreciates Gibbs pairing the two of them off more and more as Ziva's position at NCIS becomes more and more permanent. Why he is calmer when he is in her presence than anywhere else in NCIS. And why when he sees a hooded man walking slowly but purposefully towards his partner at a crime scene, he doesn't hesitate to grab his left shoulder to spin him around.

The man whirls around with the pull and all McGee has time to hear is a small spring, an almost unnoticeable click and the razor sharp, deep pain is in his side right where his vision told him. His killer gently holds his neck with his left hand, right palm against his side as the blade that appears to have sprouted from a hidden wrist mechanism digs even deeper into his side. His heart is untouched by the blade, but it is beating madly. The pain has robbed him of any sound he might've made as the sun shines on his face in an almost mockingly cheerful way. As the man slowly sits him down on one of the many park benches in the area, their eyes briefly connect; and Tim feels a similar power reach out to his own.

Before he knows it, he is in a grey void similar in how he'd always imagined purgatory to look. Nothing but grayness and a faint light that is within but diffused by everything in this empty place. And then he hears the voice he instinctively knows to be that of his killer. He turns, and his killer is there, standing face to face with him, hood down and right wrist slightly bloodied by the blade still stuck in his side. _Peace brother. Lay your burdens to rest._ He says to him. The voice is quiet, compassionate. Similar to the deep green eyes gazing at him. Not at all what he expected the voice of his murderer to be like. He blinks, and he's lying in the arms of this man who calls him brother, looking up at him.

_Were you ever actually after Ziva?_ Is the first thing he thinks to ask, his concern for his teammate still foremost in his mind. He's tasting small bits of copper on the back of his tongue. But he's paying more attention to the answer to his question as the unmasked assassin looks into his eyes with a forlorn expression. _No._ he responds. _She was merely a test. A way of seeing if your family learned the lesson that the Exiled One did not._ Tim, while not completely unaware of his family's history thanks to his uncle's instructions and what bits he could piece together later in life, is nonetheless caught completely off-guard by this admission.

He's gone from being prone in the man's arms to pacing and striding around nearby the man as he asks, _What are you talking about? Who's this Exiled One you just mentioned?_ He doesn't even pay attention to the fact that he's now up and about inside this place, merely concentrating on trying to piece together what this all means. The brown haired man simply brings his lips slightly closer to Tim's gently held head as he speaks in his ear.

_Long ago, when your family was still accepted as followers, one of your ancestors had a powerful firstborn son. This son was granted visions by the Patron. He was favored even among the chosen of the Patron. Until one day he was shown a glimpse of what was yet to come that he did not agree with the Patron upon. Instead of acting upon the vision as the Patron wished your ancestor did as he wished, acting in a way he deemed fit and would prove to have disrupted the Patron's Divine Show. As a consequence the Patron banished your family from the Stage and cursed the firstborn sons to be given the same choice the original was given, so that in this way all would be punished for and learn from the hubris of the Exiled One. And so the punishment would continue until either such time as the Patron deemed you ready to return to the Stage or deemed you unfit to perform._

Tim stops pacing and turns back to look at his attacker. _So does that mean…_ He trails off hopefully, so wishing and pleading with this Patron that his killer believes in that the answer is what he thinks it is. The emerald eyed man merely nods once. _Your family has been redeemed and cleansed of the Exiled One's taint. From this time forward, no firstborn shall ever have to prove that they have learned the lessons that their ancestor did not._ Tim looks away briefly, his eyes slightly wet. _…The curse…it's over? Gone for good?_ He asks, his voice almost breaking as his heart simultaneously fills with inexpressible joy and sadness. Joy that no more would his family have to live in fear, in secrecy, doomed boy passing word of it on to the next doomed boy in an endless line. Sadness that even if he was responsible for it, he would never get to see it. Never see his sisters oldest son smile, blissfully unaware of the blade that no longer hung invisibly over his head, waiting to strike him down.

_Yes it is._ The stranger answers, his own eyes already wet as he places a small kiss upon Tim's forehead, left hand squeezing the back of his neck lightly in a form of reassurance. _You have ended it and saved all who may come after you brother._ And as his killer smiles and begins to lay him upon the warm ground of this way-station of judgment, he instructs: _Be proud of what you have done. You have faced the worst the Show could offer you and you have still proven yourself worthy of the Patron's faith in you._ He holds his bloodstained right hand over Tim's steadily slowing heart. And he whispers:

_So the Show moves ever onward. Toward a conclusion that only Patron and Art together can create. And while the conclusion will not be known to you, it shall remember you even after you have faded from this realm. So go to the realm of the Patron my brother, my fellow beloved labor of Art. And know that even when the Stage is at its darkest, your light shall act as a guide to illuminate the way._

He stands up and begins to walk away, his back on the now flat McGee. Tim calls to him; _Can I at least know the name of my fellow performer?_ As the meeting point fades, he swears he hears a laugh in the man's voice as he answers: _Alistair. Alistair Delinard._

As the real world returns, Tim finds himself sitting on the park bench, his wound bleeding out as he watches Alistair stride away from him. Ziva, who has turned to see where he is, just misses seeing his murderer disappear into the foliage and rushes to Tim. "Tim?!" Her voice is a bit louder than normal, her eyes slightly manic as her brain rushes and panics at turning around to see him sitting on a bench bleeding out. He remains calm, his eyes still wet from his revelations in the landscape he just shared with the man who has killed him. "Ziva, it's okay, it's alright-" He starts, only to be interrupted as she tells him to save his energy, her phone already out and 911 dialed in the few seconds it took him to begin speaking.

He shakes his head minutely. "Ziva, please listen to me." He asks in such a quiet, solemn way that even as she's rattling off where she is to the emergency dispatch her eyes are drawn to him to hear what it is he has to say. "I need you to do something for me okay. Just one thing." He says. "Tim, whatever it is you think you need me to do, you can do it yourself after you're back to being as good as you." She tries to hurriedly reassure him. The copper taste in his mouth is stronger now as some blood leaks out of the corners of his mouth, telling him he can't correct her that the phrase is 'good as new.' "No, no time. I need you to tell Sara to find the key." "The what?" She asks, not understanding his request even as her sharp ears and peripheral vision search almost desperately for that reassuring wail and flashing lights that lets them both know help is close by. "Tell her to use the key. Tell her it's hidden in my escape route. She'll know what it means." Even as she doesn't want to hear this, Tim can see her photographic memory unwillingly commit it to her data banks.

"Why though? What does a key have to do with this?!" she asks, her voice a bit louder as his eyes begin to unfocus a bit. "N-Nothing." He wheezes, his breathing getting shallower and more labored. "She simply…d-deserves…to know…the truth." He continues, every word costing him his body cannot provide automatically any longer. "Tim? Tim!" she says sharply, taking his round face in her beautifully delicate but so brutally deadly hands. "Look at me Tim! You're not going to die here, not like this!" she declares, her tone sure as her lovely brown eyes demand compliance from him. He smiles at her. A broken, ragged and fulfilled smile as more red leaks from his mouth, staining the tops of his collar even as the wound his hands are pressed on paints his fingers, his palms and his shirt in that unmistakable crimson shade. "Y-Your eyes…" he mutters to her, the blood loss putting him in a state of euphoric delirium. "Your eyes…are…just like…hers." He sees the question in her face. But he can't tell her. Not like this. Because if he knows the team at all, he knows they'll want to know what it is Tim left for Sara even though it has nothing to do with any of their cases. She'll find out soon enough what he has done. For now, in these last fading seconds, he wants to be able to know he is a friend, a loved one, a cherished person in her life. "I-I…I just…I wish…" Even as his senses dull, he can hear the sirens and the shouts. But Ziva wants to know. And he hears her ask what it is he wishes. "I wish…I could…know…if T-Tali…ever…forgave me." And so it is that with those last words Timothy McGee, descendant of the Exiled One, last of the firstborn sons, passed from the realm of life into the realm of death.

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A/N: Whew, that was a doozy! Now for some quick clarification: I had a whole epic story planned out, of which this was only going to be the beginning. Basically, I had this whole idea of stuff that would come out and would be revealed after Tim's death, a series of journals or even a computer program he wrote to explain everything to his sister, and how she and the team would react after all of this. I tried and tried to write more than this but couldn't bring myself to keep going. So this is what I have as it stands. But the good news is this; I'm putting this out there primarily because I have a great deal of faith in the writers of the NCIS stories on this site. And I believe that someone out there can take my little idea and sprint with it in directions and ways I could never have imagined. All I ask, is that if you do use the idea, is that you let me know so I can have the pleasure of seeing someone else's take on yet another possibility in the wide open multiverse that is NCIS fanfiction. Take the idea as your own or comment on whether or not you think it has any merit with a review. Either way, please leave some feedback. It is after all, the coin of the realm.


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